


Son, Father, Emperor

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: But mostly sad feels, Childhood, F/M, Fatherhood, Gen, If you hate Varis this fic is also possibly for you, If you like Varis this fic is for you, In this house we promote the women of the Galvus family and do not erase them, Parenthood, Read for very sad feels, Some nice feels, Varis centric, Varis fans unite this fic is for you, Was Varis a good father? The answer will shock you!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 14:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: An Emperor, from birth, to the death of his one and only heir.Varis is a different person to so many people, his entire being depending on the eyes through which one looks at him. A child to be protected. A tool to be molded. A master to be served. A father to be obeyed.They are wrong, all of them. Varis is none of these things. Because Varis is weak. He will always be weak.





	Son, Father, Emperor

Varis is born weak.

A small baby, premature, pitiful and tiny and not yet strong enough to cry or wail for attention as infants were meant to do. He is weak. The chirurgeons do not expect him to live very long, although his death is not a certainty.

As though death had been stalking the family, his father dies soon after – a strong, healthy young man, newly a father and his first act was to die. It surprised no one, of course; with an heir in place and the status of firstborn, it was about time someone had made a move on the man’s life. What will happen to the widowed wife, the son bereft of his father? The branches will be cut of course, because the baby will not survive-

He survives. As though all the man’s vitality had been passed from father to son, Varis only days later beings to cry, loudly, and the next afternoon he is sent home with his mother. So much noise the tiny baby makes; it’s enough to bring a smile to his unfortunate mother’s face.

With the help of her father-in-law – invaluable assistance from the Emperor himself, she reminds her son more than once – Varis’s mother raises him. The first few years pass in blessed peace and protection; under Solus’s watchful guard.

How interesting that his watchful gaze is helpful only now. That he had not been watching over his eldest son. She says nothing to her child but silently, she swears she will not raise a man to be such a father. There is no way to accuse, and wise as she is in the ways of politics she cannot be sure; Solus’s grief at the funeral had seemed quite genuine, but men had done worse things for power and regretted it.

No, she cannot pursue her husband’s killers, not with his child left behind for her. This one precious thing he had left behind to her care and keeping, and hers alone.

Until Solus comes in.

Varis is only a boy then, but an older boy, seven or eight when his grandfather begins to meet with him. His mother cannot help but recognize the grooming when she sees it, the plans hinted at in his words hidden by intentions she cannot yet gleam. But still, when he claims to want to spend time with his grandson, reminding her silently of his remorse for Varis’s father, the death of his own wife, and how Titus had left to make his own lot of Garlean politics; she cannot help but sympathize.

It's always innocuous things, always a meeting over tea and cookies or in the library with a gift of a favorite book – she hears from her son after, cheerful in a way she hadn’t quite seen before, that they had bonded over books and stories – or a visit to the theatre, which her son does so dearly seem to enjoy. Solus invites her as well once or twice, and the Emperor is such pleasant company she does enjoy her time with him and her boy.

So easy, she thinks to herself, as words flow like honey from his mouth, so easy to forget this man was invading other nations, killing people by the millions. Allowing his ‘disciplined’ legions to rape and pillage with reckless abandon.

Forgetting what this man does, what he continues to do, is so easy. She cannot talk too much about it to Varis, not yet, but she vows she will not raise another man who sends armies forth with no care to the people they hurt, and the people in those armies who threw away their lives for naught but fruitless conquest. No. Not her son. Her son will not be like that. He will know better; she will teach him to be better, and if he ever becomes Emperor, he will know what to do, he will have the wisdom and compassion for his fellow man, Garlean or no.

Perhaps Solus had not had such a mother, and in any case – loath as she as to admit to it – it is not within her power to do anything. Refusal could mean grave political consequences, and she does not have the heart to watch her son comply with disappointment. He’s such a good, obedient son, so dutiful and loyal even as a small boy, so willing to help her with anything and everything. A sweet young child who would do anything his mother asked without complaint; she wants to make him happy in any way she can.

So she allows Solus this time with her boy. Tries to control his exposure to the man’s ideals so that he does not get wrong ideas, but Solus does mostly seem to be bonding with the boy. Being something of a father figure, sharing stories, talking to him about what Varis does with his time, his studies; playing with the boy and making him laugh, sending her child home to her always with a smile on his face.

Solus is kind to her; gracious, even, and though she knows the things he’s done Varis’s mother cannot help but show him sympathy. Once, twice, she denies the Emperor on some reasonable but contrived excuse, just to see how he reacts, and it’s his honest deference that makes her mind. He really does make her child happy, after all. Despite her misgivings over his politics, her son would be exposed to this one way or another.

Despite the illusion of respect, she knows full well who is in control. It’s kind of Solus to spare her pride. She harbors no delusions about her own power, her position in this still newly-established imperial dynasty. At least this way she can be with her son. At least this way she can _try_ to raise him right.

She is no heir to the throne, has no status as a widow. There is nothing she can do about that now, nothing she can say and no action she can take to keep Solus from her child, to keep herself out of fool’s wars and their sick views on the ‘lesser races’. Varis’s mother is powerless, insignificant. History, she suspects, will not even remember her name. And there is nothing she can do about it.

But that doesn’t mean there is nothing she can do _at all._

That doesn’t mean it will be so for her _son._ She will make _sure_ that it isn’t so for her son. He’ll never know this silent humiliation, this disgusting submission she must show to others, the shame of being unable to protect even herself, let alone her child. Varis will never suffer like this; she will make sure of it. That much she _can_ do.

So Varis’s mother willingly gives Solus a place in her child’s life. And sometimes – only sometimes – his charm really does get to her, the man’s generous gifts and polite company. One for intelligent conversation and possessed of a remarkable charisma; sometimes she does forget just the things that Solus has done. The ways the man has talked about those not of Garlean lineage.

A _most esteemed_ member of nobility such as her, she has only pureblood Garleans as servants. Varis is surrounded by _his own kind._ She never has to look them in the eye, and with every day she forgets more and more how profound the bigotry is outside the palace walls.

More and more she forgets until it feels like a mere political disagreement. A small issue. How can she hate a man who smiles at her and hugs her son the way his father never could have? The man who lost both his sons, one to politics, the other to some treachery she cannot discover, and who mourns his dead son as dearly as she her lost husband. Solus could not _truly_ be so vile, really.

After all, even the Emperor was once a babe in the cradle.

 

 

Varis will make his mother proud.

He knows it when he is a child, very very young. So much so that he does not remember ever thinking it, ever deciding upon it. It’s merely a fact of his life, a silent presence in the back of his mind that even his five year old self notices as he goes about his day.

It's not unnatural at all, Varis comes to realize when he is older. After all, to a child, the parents – the _parent,_ is all there is. His mother is his entire world; she is the smile that he sees every morning, the warmth on his shoulders when he is feeling sad, the soft, cool hand grasped in his own when he is nervous.

She does not tell him to do her proud – his mother does not tell him to do anything, most of the time. She’s always asking him questions – how he likes this, is he happy, is there anything he wants – so many such things. His mother is the best person in the world, his protector from the intimidating politicians that oft try to sneak a glance at the Emperor’s favored grandchild – his _only_ grandchild – and his comfort and joy otherwise. Reading to him and showing him new things.

His mother reads him books and plays him with the snow. She shows him how to use a magitek toy without him thinking for a moment that he is learning how magitek transistors work. Before he knows it he is asking her where the snow comes from and what other kinds of magitek there is, and his mother is always smiling with her answers.

She shows him pictures of the places he’ll get to go when he’s older. Some of them are dull and boring and grey, some of them are wild and green, other places are just – just _fantastic._ Varis can’t wait. It’s such a big world out there. Sometimes he wants his mother to hurry up and take him out to see it. Sometimes he wants to see more people, meet more people.

As soon as Varis comes into contact with other children – he realizes just what his mother is.

Their smiles are nothing like hers. Some months later, after a conversation with Solus, Varis will look back and realize those smiles were entirely forced, his playmates there at their parent’s command, not of their own will. At the time he merely finds it unsettling, strange – he writes them off as _just weird,_ in his childish mind, until one of them snaps at him, demanding

And Varis, being but a child of some five years, does not yet understand entirely how to say ‘No’. The word doesn’t quite come to mind, he can’t quite voice the sentiment – he’d never _had_ to.

With little effort the others push him around, go about things how they liked, and play their own games amongst themselves. Varis is not necessarily excluded, merely they do not leave space for him, do not speak to him. Had he been any other child, he could have pushed back, shoved his way into their circle and interrupted in conversation. They’re not being cruel, quite, these children – they only do not see Varis as interesting, as a person to play. He is a quiet boy their parents told them to be nice to, and isn’t not talking to him being ‘respectful’?

So when the time comes for Varis to make friends, he does not. He only realizes now just how kind his mother is, just how devoted and precious she was. None of these children had smiled to see him, had asked him how his day was, tried to talk to him.

He’s a child, so it doesn’t occur to him to try to talk to _them._ Varis sits there, feeling awkward and useless, saying nothing.

When the adults return, and they ask how it all went, the other children chime that it was fine, and Varis nods along with them. He knows he can’t complain. He’s the one who didn’t know what to do, after all.

 

Varis is only a child who does not quite know how to say ‘No’. But the boy does know what his mother _wants_ to hear, what answer will make her happy.

It’s very good that Varis is only a child, because had he had the tiniest bit of natural talent for lying his mother might have believed him.

She sighs and tells him it’s all right. She can arrange something else, in any case. Her son is sweet, but awkward – having so many other children around, she’d thought, would break the ice. Give him a chance to be a part of a normal environment with others his own age. Among equals. Her boy has spent so much time around adults – the _Emperor,_ even.

He is constantly expected to show respect, decorum, as a five year old boy. And he does miraculously. All the time he spends around adults, Varis begins to act more and more like one. He is not prone to childish things – to complaints, to interruptions. He’ll learn to assert himself in due time, of course, but for now he acts with great deference towards others, as he’s obliged to, being a child.

She’d be proud, if it didn’t make her worry.

More and more time goes by and she notices her son’s lack of friends. Less and less is she able to do aught about it; Varis tells her not to worry, introduces her to this or that young man or acquaintance that he had met, but she is too good at telling when people are lying. And Varis is far, far too poor a liar.

She knows, she worries, and she does nothing. She can do nothing.

In the only one who might understand her concerns – in the only one who really knew Varis – she confides.

 

 

“Politics, dear boy.” Solus says.

Varis is still young, barely a teen, but has already the wisdom of ages. In no small part to his grandfather’s tutelage. “How does that justify the treatment of the aan? Outside the Empire, they may be enemies, but if being within the Empire is no better, does that not give them all the more reason to rebel?”

“Ah, to be young and naïve.” The sigh, Varis knows, is for his benefit, for dramatic effect. Solus is not actually tired. For a man so old it is surprising that Solus rarely tires in his grandson’s company; seemingly, the man has infinite patience and energy.

Varis has only seen him when in his good moods. What Solus looks like in his worse moments is really anyone’s guess. He doesn’t care to wonder.

“Naïve how? I am merely considering the situation from their perspective.” Varis does not call them _savages,_ of course, a fact he’s sure his grandfather notes, “If defeat means death and suffering, and surrender means suffering and humiliation, will not many of them choose their pride?”

“Most of them will choose their pride, dear grandson.”

“Then how will we ever unite them?”

Solus may be old and grey but his eyes are bright, gold and sharp. It’s not at all like looking into a mirror, for Varis himself had never had quite such a piercing gaze. “We weed out the ones who value pride over survival. We keep only those who will cast aside their home and people, who will leave behind everything in order to serve the cause. And for those who have no pride, they will need little reward.”

This doesn’t make sense. Pride kept people loyal, kept them willing to dedicate themselves to a higher purpose, kept them from acting like animals in the face of danger. A man with no pride would not hesitate to desert, would not blink at the thought of killing or harming his own allies for his own sake.

A man with no pride had no _rules._ Varis cannot imagine a world without rules.

“But – that is not a sustainable strategy. Not in the long term. How long can that possibly last?”

The smile his grandfather gives him is a strange one. “Naught in this world can ever last.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Varis can’t think of what to say of that. Not with how old his grandfather is, aging and grey and so slower in his movements than he had been before. It’s strange that he hadn’t thought of it before; Solus had always seemed to be so impeccable, so intelligent and quick witted, unbelievably sharp.

Age had crept up on the man, taken him slowly, but surely. His grandfather, the larger-than-life Emperor who had always laughed the loudest in the theater – the man with the booming voice and the charming smile – and he’s… dying. Growing old.

Solus is still smiling when Varis leaves.

 

 

 

Varis marries his wife knowing what is expected of him, knowing what the purpose of their union is. There is no misunderstanding between them. He and she are both well aware of what is meant to be accomplished here. He had selected her –

No. No, that phrase that Solus used is not appropriate.

The man had drilled his responsibilities into him for years. Ever since Varis had been sent to the Academy, pried away from his mother’s tutelage and allowed visits that she could not supervise and would not hear about until much later. Varis knew what he needed to do, and he planned accordingly.

But he had not selected her. This is a woman he has known for years, after careful searching and introductions and deliberation over many possible matches, on _both_ their parts. This woman is as wise and steadfast as his own mother – who, naturally, approves – and a woman who will help him along the way, put him right when he stumbles.

One who can accept him for all that he is and draw her own strength from past his stoic façade. He knows he’s not the greatest lover in the world; he does not say ‘I love you’ often enough, words come to him with great difficulty. He has spent so much time relishing in the unconditional love his mother showered upon him, basking in the attention of his extremely charismatic grandfather, that Varis does not quite know how to romance a woman, does not quite know what to say to make others like him.

The woman he marries knows this and marries him still. She smiles when he reaches for her waist, says ‘I love you’ after he kisses her cheek as a goodbye. He gives her touches, she gives him words. He covers their home in the colors she favors, in soft and plush furniture he knows she likes, has food and delicacies ordered for her to try, has books stocked in the library for her to read. Puts aside moments, even in his busiest, to greet her even if only with a silent kiss. Holds her even when he must crawl into bed beside her sleeping, so late in the night it is almost morning, careful not to wake her even when he must leave first.

Every decision he makes, Varis consults her about, treats her opinion with respect and decency. He never yells, never raises his voice at her, not in their worst moments. Even if he must stumble awkwardly through the conversation she is always there to help him. Infinitely understanding, his wife; Varis cannot understand how to repay her, so he does everything he can. Spends every moment he can with this woman who loves him so dearly.

He reads books with her as often as he can, sitting silently across from her while the each of them look at their separate readings. Sometimes he finds himself drawn into conversations, talking more animatedly than he had ever imagined he would be, and it’s genuinely fun, some of the most enjoyment he is allowed to have in this taxing adulthood. He gives and gives to her and she gives back in her own way, pulls him out and shows him parts of himself he had not seen before.

Varis knows he must have an heir, but he finds himself almost excited. He can read to his child with his wife, all together. Go to plays and –

Something in the back of his mind reminds him, of course, that he will not have the time. He is a Legatus now, his duties are growing. But Varis has not yet learned the art of proper pessimism and his wife is there to help him in any case. He will find a way, he is sure. His child will have all the love and attention he did not.

His heir would have the childhood his mother wished she could give him. Varis would do her proud. Become the Emperor that Solus told him he could be.

 

 

 

And then his son is born. And his wife is dead.

When the news reaches him Varis is not distraught, is not forlorn. It is not the time or place for such emotions; he is needed, he has a purpose to fulfil.

It will never be the time or place. His is in line for the throne, Solus has as good as confirmed that he will be Emperor, despite the strange dance he makes around the subject officially. Varis is a grown man, and now a father. He has to act like one.

So Varis holds the little baby swaddled in his arms, having picked the child up with disciplined, careful movements. Precise and measured, an efficient sweep of his arms under the infant, scooping it upwards to hold in his arms the way he had seen the wet-nurses doing it. He does not cry and only looks down at the pink, mewling creature in his arms.

Zenos, he calls it. Zenos. The name of his firstborn son, the only child he will ever have. The thing in his arms is so tiny looking, it’s skin is wrinkled and reddened and it looked to be stretched so very thin around his forehead, veins showing clear through skin that had never seen the light. As pale as Varis is, as his wife is – was – it’s no surprise.

This tiny little animal is a whole _person_ waiting to grow up, a child waiting to call out his father’s name and laugh and learn and grow larger and larger every passing year – will he be as tall as his father? As beautiful as his mother? Varis can’t wait to find out, and can’t let it show on his face, so he only gazes stoically down at the creature in his arms as its cries soften into little whines and mumbles.

A – it’s so small Varis can’t even call it small, it is miniscule, _miniature,_ like such an obscure detail in a work of art that one needed to study it an ilm away from their face just to see the shape of it, Varis can’t even call it a _hand,_ it’s so small, it seems improper to say that. But the baby in his arms reaches out all the same, tiny little stubs of fingers uncurling just a bit to clutch at a strand of hair that hung forward as Varis gazed down on him.

In a heartbeat, Varis is a father. He loves this creature in his arms, this little thing. He’ll do anything for it, _anything,_ he’ll help it grow from this tiny wailing thing to a slightly less helpless child, to an older, wiser boy and a man who would be proud to call him Father. Varis loves his baby, he loves Zenos.

He's so small and helpless in Varis’s arms he almost worries he might crush him, how easy it would be to squeeze the baby just a bit too hard, how terribly _fragile_ he looked there.

Varis puts him down quickly and leaves his heart in that cradle as he walks away.

The boy will grow up to be a monster, but even if Varis had known he couldn’t have done anything. Not on that day, the earliest moments of Zenos’s life, the one and only time of vulnerability in his otherwise invincible existence.

Varis couldn’t have done anything, not even as a full-grown man with that delicate newborn helpless in his hands. He was weak.

And now that his wife was gone, he was alone.

 

So alone, Varis raises his son. Or rather, he tries.

Oh, does he _try._

And for some time, he succeeds. Admirably, even. His boy – that tiny thing, barely any weight at all in his arms– grows into a beautiful, _beautiful,_ healthy little boy, strong and pink and glowing. His hair is bright and gold like a halo, his eyes are the bluest of blues and tug at Varis’s heartstrings in reminder, even though his face stays as just a mask.

He is a Legatus but he makes time, he finds time. His mother is strangely distant after a meeting with Solus but Varis thinks naught of it; this is his time to work alone, to prove that he can do this, despite how wrongly his plans have gone.

For a while they go well. His son, the perfect child; the boy is such a lively, animated toddler Varis finds the time he spends playing and reading and just silently doing paperwork while his son sits on his lap idling away, it all passes too quick, painfully quick. He doesn’t want to leave the capital, doesn’t want to leave his child alone in this nest of Garlean nobility and tutors and caretakers, however trusted.

That’s his son. It’s his _son_. He wants to raise him, politics be damned, he wants to be there and read Zenos stories he was far too young for and play little childish games Varis was far too old for and just _hold_ his boy in his arms and feel the child basking in his attention.

Zenos always hugs his father back, at the tender age of five, he always reaches out unthinkingly when within a certain distance to be lifted up, crying out joyfully when Varis does lean over to pick him off the floor and high, high, _so_ high up. The boy is so small, tiny, a miniature person who comes up barely to his knees, even, with how tall he is.

It's a marvel beyond marvels, just how _tiny_ the boy is, how small. And still Zenos embraces his father with all the strength his little body can exert, and it’s a warm enough hug that Varis cannot help but smile every time.

Still, it is rare. His son is given the best tutors, the most complete and rigorous schooling, here in the palace. From his toddler years the habits fade quickly, trained out of him by strict instruction. At the tender age of four his son has perfect manners, posture, nearly the diction of a grown adult, and Varis is proud.

Even if he misses the tiny creature who opened his arms to his father. Even if Zenos’s eyes lose a little of their brightness – sharp with examination instead of wide with childish curiosity, dark with thoughtful silence instead of lighting up as he babbled away. It is the way of things – all children outgrow this, and Zenos is to be Prince.

It seems to happen, slowly, but all at once; Varis realizes just how rarely he sees his son these days. He can’t recall when it began, at what time he saw Zenos _more_ often and how often that was – he only knows he has not seen Zenos yesterday, nor the day before, and looking back, so many days blended together without that golden-haired child appearing in his memories.

Often he is stuck in his office, drafting plans, slaving away over paperwork and drafting up field strategies and plans; the consequence of his absence from the battlefield. More and more he has come to rely on the precious few allies he has – Regula, most of all, Gaius only ever seems to tolerate him, but they are competent men both and Varis is glad to know them.

But for all of Regula’s devotion and Gaius’s reluctant assistance – Varis does not know what to make of Nael, hesitates to reach out to Midas – there’s only so much that can be done. He is the Crown Prince presumptive, and a Legatus besides. His work is unending, unfaltering, and always either mind-numbingly dull or thoroughly sickening.

Still, he has not seen his son in weeks, in _weeks._ The boy is only seven and Varis worries, irrationally, deep in his heart of hearts, that Zenos will forget what his father’s face looks like if he is away too long. Nevermind that the boy is a genius, Varis’s heart _hurts_ to think of him left all alone in that castle, wondering when his father will return. Zenos has no mother to hug him and hold his hand and read him books – no grandfather to take him to plays and tell him stories and entertain him with subtle lessons.

‘Tis well that Solus is not influencing his son, but – but the boy is alone. All alone in there. Varis must do something.

 

 

So Varis works. More and more, he works away in that large office, filled with dark wooden fixtures, immaculately maintained and lacquered as befit a man of his status, well organized by his own diligence, as cleaning staff were not permitted in here.

There’s a particular sound the door makes, when someone knocks on it. It’s a wooden thing, one of the few doors in the palace that was not all metal. A softer material with great strength of its own, a richness and feel to it Varis far preferred to steely surfaces that opened automatically. Rare are the times anyone does deign to disturb him in his office, most often for a reminder he had commanded be done himself.

But as time goes on, as his duties pile onto him Varis hears a new sound, a new knock. It takes him a moment to realize why it’s different – the sound is much closer to the ground. As though a child had made it. It makes sense that Zenos would think nothing of coming up to him here and knocking on his door as he works; Varis has lavished his son with attention and affection as much as he was able. How could the boy ever imagine that his father would not want him there?

The knock comes again, that distinct sound of the knocking coming from too low. Varis does not quite know what to say – he never does – but the door is locked, so there is no need for words. The boy will understand, eventually, will become bored and walk away.

The knocking does not stop. It comes again.

“Father?” The voice is distinct, lower than other boys his age but still so very young.

There’s no helping it. Zenos must know that he is in there; the light can surely be seen from below the crack. He has to come up with something to say to the boy, and explanation, he cannot simply sit there and let his son wonder why he is being ignored…

It’s worse than coming up with something to say, worse than asking his son questions about the boy’s life and going from there, flowing into bonding that was surprisingly natural. Varis is at least accustomed to being friendly, showing interest, if only to the select few who had been close to him. Making excuses? Varis does not know this.

“I am busy, Zenos.” He says, opting for the bluntest, most truthful approach. “With work.”

Those curt words are the end of it. Varis returns to signing, to frowning, the lines in his face most certainly becoming more and more prominent with every moment. Solus might mock him for it later, but what was he to do?

He wanted so badly to spend more time with his son, and this was what he had to do for it. And doing this meant sending his boy away, when he wanted his attention, when Varis wanted nothing more than to give him that attention, ask Zenos what he wanted to talk about, find out what his boy had been doing in the past couple days he had not seen him…

The knock again, Varis nearly feels against his chest, painful in its hesitant tapping. He continues writing, gives no more explanation. Zenos is a clever child, he will understand. This silly insistence – the boy really – really must start to realize sometime, that his father cannot spend _all his time_ with him, that Varis had, had other obligations.

Other obligations away from his son. He’d – he’d clearly spoiled the boy too much. In part this was his fault. Varis would simply have to sit down and talk to his son later, and Zenos would understand it at once, he was that brilliant a child. It was unseemly to demand his father’s attention like this, without regard for what other things he needed to do. There could be no bending to the child’s will, Varis needed to assert himself and make it clear to Zenos that he could not pry Varis away from his work when he was busy.

Again the boy knocks. Softly. As though apologizing for knocking so much before, as though asking _what is wrong, father_ , asking _don’t you want to see me_ , wondering _what did I do wrong_ –

Nonsense. Silly of him, to even think it. Varis shook his head once, as though the one motion could relieve him of these idle fantasies – nightmares, more like – and set back to work, minding his penmanship. Why had he been pressing down so hard with the pen?

Another soft knock. So soft Varis is not sure how he hears it over the sound of rustling paper.

The image of Zenos, his little boy, standing out there – his beautiful little boy, hair smooth and tidy, he did always take such care of it, leaning against the door, barely coming up to the handle, reaching up an arm to knock carefully as he listened for his father’s reply –  waiting for a response that would never come, because Varis was trying to _teach him a lesson,_ it’s enough to break a man, nearly breaks Varis. But Varis is not so weak.

No, he continues with his work. Zenos is a clever child, but he is still a child. He needs to know that Varis cannot spend all his time on him. His father cannot spend all his time with him. This childish insistence cannot be rewarded.

One more knock.

The pen nearly breaks in his fingers. Varis controls his breathing carefully, does his very best not to make a sound. He cannot encourage this.

There’s silence at last.

And then the sound of footsteps, small ones. Quieter and quieter, walking away.

Varis tells himself he is not disappointed. This is what he wanted. His son has understood the message he meant to sent, and left as he should. Zenos is, after all, the perfect child. Obedient. Just as Varis was at his age.

A snapping sound comes from his hand. Varis does not continue writing.

He is not disappointed. This is foolishness, utterly _silly_ of him. He can’t turn his son away one time? This work is _important,_ it _needs_ to be done, how will they live as they are if Varis does not maintain their position and status in society? He cannot simply shirk his obligations. It set a bad example, as well as teaching Zenos that Varis would bend to his every demand.

Varis will bend. Or he will break. Because Varis is weak.

The pen goes in the trash, where it belongs, and Varis opens a drawer to take out a new one. The paper he’d been writing on had been mussed a bit, but that was of no consequence. Not compared to how Zenos must feel, having had his father dismiss him so coldly and distantly –

Another pen is broken. It’s an absolutely pathetic breach of composure and Varis would be – he is ashamed of it. At least no one is here to see his pitiful little outburst. At least there is this one place where he is not being watched, examined, perpetually judged for worthiness, for fault.

In the trash it goes once more, and Varis has to lean back, take a deep breath. Clear his mind as best he can, fill it with the dull, political, unappetizing matters on the desk before him and put all thoughts of his child from his mind. There will be time for that later. _Later._

The thought is little comfort but Varis _must_ get this done, it is late, getting later, and this work in truth was important. Time ticks and ticks away and seems to go by minutes instead of heartbeats, every time he glances at a clock it seems less and less time has passed. And so very little work is getting done, Varis is not wont to avoid his duties but it feels especially like a grind now that he has turned away what he really wanted…

Varis’s heart nearly _stops_ when the door creaks open. How had he not heard the lock?

“Father.” It’s not a question anymore, and Varis should be glaring at his son for insolence.

He does not. Luckily Zenos closes the door carefully behind him, so Varis’s expression is not seen by any other. If a servant were to see him slack-jawed at the sight of his son standing in the doorway, now _that_ would be something worth punishing the boy for. Instead Varis only stares ahead wordlessly, at his son, pen stilled in his hand.

Zenos walks up to his desk, and Varis catches him pocketing a key. Where the boy had gotten it from, Varis truly had no idea – his own bedchambers, perhaps? Zenos had been allowed in those. It felt like ages since it had happened, but Varis still remembers; Zenos had come, sometimes to his father’s room in the night, complaining of bad dreams and such. In his private rooms, outside the public eye and the heavy weight of decorum Varis had thought naught of scooping the boy into his arms and holding Zenos until the child fell asleep in his arms.

Even though he oft did work in his personal chambers – part of the reason he had shifted to doing work in here was the greater security, how much less he was disturbed, and what papers he could keep here – and Zenos oft stumbled in on his father burning the midnight oil, pouring over some political document or another.

Always, he turned to his son with the closest thing he had to a smile, asked what was wrong. And however cold or blunt the words had sounded, Zenos always responded honestly, every word of his heartfelt and unguarded. Reaching out those small arms, waiting for his father to pick him up and make him feel better.

Varis always did. He was weak.

So when Zenos reaches the desk, lays his hands on top of it, jumping just a tiny bit in a terribly endearing, if pathetic, leap, Varis does not send him away. He stands, reaches over to hook under his son’s arms, and lifts the boy into his lap as he sits back down. Zenos, of course, wiggles a bit and makes himself comfortable, leaning back into his father’s chest with a sigh of satisfaction.

Varis can feel his small chest expanding against his own with every breath, the boy snuggling in towards his father’s warmth as Varis reaches back to the table to continue his work. It’s an awkward position, absolutely nothing like before, and yet Varis feels a bit of new energy, a bit of willingness more to go over the text once again and remember what this or some other politician needed him to write, to sign, to command.

“You should not be here, Zenos.” Varis says, almost offhanded, not pausing for a moment, “You cannot do this again. You must leave me be when I am in this room. There is much work to be done, and until it is complete I do not have time to spend with you.”

It hurts to say it. When Zenos does not see fit to comply, Varis, in a fit of energy regained, shifts backwards in the chair and turns his son to face him.

“Did you hear me?” He does not ask if Zenos understands, because Varis knows he does, “This work is important. It _must_ be completed, for my livelihood and yours; I have a duty to fulfil. Someday, you will share in this duty as well.”

Blue eyes only stare back at him undaunted. “Then I will help you.”

A man such as him, an Emperor in waiting and a commander of a Legion, and those piercing blue eyes and declaration – so unsuited for a boy his age – absolutely melt his heart; Varis doesn’t know what to do, really.

It’s absolute inconceivable that he even goes along with it, but this is – Zenos is –

This brilliant and determined little boy is his _son,_ this is his _baby_ staring at him with his mother’s eyes. Demanding a way to help, demanding the opportunity to be – to be _useful_ to his father, as Varis had so desperately wanted to be to his mother –

Varis is weak. He can deny his son nothing.

 

 

Varis doesn’t know how this creature came to be, half the time – packed with energy and liveliness. Never daunted by the absences his father avoids as often as possible, perpetually cheerful and a delight to his tutors. So witty and clever and surprisingly capable, able to help him in ways Varis had never _imagined_ a child could do. His son, his brilliant perfect little boy, always ready and eager to do anything his father asked of him.

What he’d done to deserve this child, Varis doesn’t know. There’s only one thing Zenos is lacking, and it is the one thing Varis doesn’t know how to give him; friends, ones his age. It’s especially bad, because Varis had never had friends _his_ age as a child, either.

Only a mother and an Emperor, and an ambition to span several generations. Still, a child as intelligent as Zenos, as handsome and outgoing; the boy couldn’t possibly do badly. Varis arranges, though awkwardly, some playdates for his son with other Garlean children of nobility, and though none are particularly eager to meet again, beneath the veneer of their parents commanding them to get along with the future Crown prince, Varis is certain Zenos is getting all he needs.

Zenos has been – rough, a bit, with his playmates but Varis is confident it’s simple boyish roughhousing, nothing to be too worked up over. He had troubles of his own making friends, all his childhood. Regula may have even been his _first_ friend, come to think of it. Gaius never did like him that much, Midas was always buried in his studies.

Varis is sure his son will find his way sometime, as he had. The worry is there, but it is small.

 

Until it isn’t.

 

Years go by and Varis simply does not have the time any more, cannot set aside the time to spend with his son. He tries to tell himself it will be all right, in the moments he _is_ able to spend with Zenos he tries to make up for it, reassure his son that _he really does love him_ and it – it doesn’t seem to be working.

Zenos’s youthful energy fades slowly, and all at once. Varis can’t recall the process, he doesn’t understand _how_ it got to this point exactly, how the animated boy from a mere few years ago grew into this child who speaks only when spoken to, practices perfect diction and posture and for the life of him does not seem to enjoy anything, anymore.

Varis tries, of course. And he fails. Zenos does not read anymore, not unless it is for his studies, textbooks the child flits through and seems to memorize with ease.

 

And that’s when it happens – when he realizes. Spending time with his father isn’t enough for Zenos anymore. He’s not the same little boy who will gleefully sit in his father’s lap and ask if there’s some way he can help. Even though the boy is surely old enough to help now – Varis feels naught but a pang of disgust, how could he _ever_ expect something like that from his child, absolutely not, he must make things _better_ for his son, Zenos will _not_ have the upbringing he did – where had that desire gone?

Did Zenos no longer worry for his father, want to spend time with him? Did Zenos no longer love him?

…Did Zenos think his father didn’t love him anymore?

Varis tries – _oh,_ does he try – but he isn’t good with words, he was never good with words. It only stings to remember that this is where his wife would have helped, would have known what to do – what to say, rather. So all the time Varis pours into his son, all the time he cannot afford to spend on his one and only precious child, it all amounts to nothing.

He can’t tell Regula that. Varis doesn’t know what to say.

Taking Zenos to the library, to the Academy, asking Zenos again and again what does he do in his spare time, how do you like this or that or some other thing – Varis has _exhausted_ his words, his ability to speak and try to reach out. He is no good at this, he has never been good at this, and still he is needed to bond because Zenos will not do it. The boy just doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even seem to want to, but –

Zenos is going through a troubling time. The teenage years are hard on many children, and it is no fault on Varis or Zenos’s part that there is only one parent in the picture. The boy doesn’t know how to express caring or affection, now that he is no longer a child, now that he has outgrown so many habits, and come to know so much about his father’s life and duties.

He is perfectly behaved, a model student and heir. Zenos is doing his best for his father in his own way, in the way he knows how. It is on Varis to bridge this gap.

What Varis needs is to find something to wipe that look off his child’s face. He hates it, absolutely despises that listless, empty look on the face of a boy only barely in his teens. He hates that look and he can’t have Zenos thinking that means he hates _him_ so he needs to find something, anything, to make his boy smile again.

It doesn’t work, but of course it doesn’t work. What does Zenos like? His studies. What does Zenos do in his free time? Train. Where would Zenos enjoy going – a trip to the theatre, perhaps, as Solus had done with him, or a hunting trip, or some other leisurely escapade? You are busy, Father. You need not make such time for me.

Varis regrets everything, all at once. The frustration builds and builds and never ends. How is he supposed to tell Zenos that this _doesn’t matter,_ he just wants his son to _look at him and smile,_ to give his father anything but that blank face? Just speaking the words out loud will do naught but tell Zenos to perform false happiness, which is not what he wants.

How can he say that in a way that Zenos will understand? Varis is stuck, he is so very stuck, he barely sees his son at all anymore and he doesn’t even know what to do when he _does._ Zenos is a convenient child, he causes no issues, his tutors all report no complaints except that the prodigy outstripped many of their wildest expectations. He’d already gone through five or so tutors in the past few months.

Tutors Varis had assigned _again_ and _again._ Each time he received invoices of his son mastering all their material, understanding everything they had to know. And yet not a single one of them had seemed to take any real interest in the boy, had anything to say about his personality or temperament. Not to Varis’s face, at least.

With ears in the walls, threats and bribes in the right places, Varis is able to hear them speak without the threat of retribution. And it does not please him.

Apparently his son is _disturbing._ Zenos looks at his teachers as though he is looking straight through them. They will come to him with a lesson plan and he will point out mistakes, elaborate on this or that minutiae. When they press him on it Zenos claims he learns it all from books, with “that sickening tone those Galvus man take to their _lessers._ ”

Varis does not pretend he does not know the tone of which they speak. He’s met his grandfather. He _is_ himself. To know Zenos has this arrogance as well – to know the boy had begun to look down on everyone, to think so little of his fellow people…

Deep down, Varis knows what is wrong. What is different between him and his son. While his mother had lavished her time on him, Zenos had been left to be raised by staff and teachers, all giving him their lessons at a polite distance, all treating him with the upmost respect. He had naught the reasons Varis had in his youth to fear offending others – and Varis is glad, he would not wish it upon his son – but that must be what has led to the boy’s strange indifference towards everyone around him.

That is the problem. Zenos has no respect for others, for their talents and abilities. He has been raised as a Prince so thoroughly, and his genius is such that none can challenge him in any case. Varis goes through more and more tutors, placing before Zenos some of the greater minds of the century, pushing him into magitek and scientific studies alike, and still the boy excels in everything. All the while Varis has been searching for someone who will teach his son a _real_ lesson.

Varis searches for one month, another, and finds naught.

Until he decides to try something new.

 

 

When Varis assigns the tutor he is, predictably, immediately drawn away by some matter of politics. It keeps him far out of the palace, away from his son, but that at least gives Zenos time with this new teacher.

Varis knows his type. Sometimes it makes him think Solus was right – it would be better if the man had no honor at all, if he valued his survival above all else. Instead the man he sends to teach his son to use the blade has too much pride. No willingness to back down, to take what he could get and survive in the way that was offered to him.

He was wrong when he told Solus a man with no pride would forsake his family. In the swordsman’s eyes Varis can see that a man with _too much_ pride will just as surely leave his wife and child to die. Save his pride and damn the consequences.

Men like him are easy to manipulate. This cannot be what Solus had meant – about nothing being able to last – but Varis doubts he will _ever_ know what the man meant in any case. He may as well not wonder. Consulting the Emperor nowadays was a fool’s errand. He’d leave with far more questions than answers.

 

When he receives the first report, however, Varis is… not pleased.

Regula, of all people, is there to see it. His mask in public is impeccable, his self-control honed by decades – but to a friend as close as his fellow Legatus the signs were still clear. Regula knows how Varis reacted to most bad news; there’s a narrowing of his eyes, a tense in the man’s jaw, a tilt to his chin.

This isn’t bad news. He hasn’t quite seen this look on his friend’s face before.

“If I may ask…” Regula leaves the question open for denial. Varis would not have trouble telling him no, of course, but it was not his place to demand information.

Varis pauses and Regula wonders if he really has asked more than he should. He is friends with Varis, close friends, in fact – but there are some things that are better left unsaid between them. His father’s death – his wife’s death – these are things Regula has never asked Varis about. Never will. Even if he knew something, what could he do?

If Varis had required aught of him, he would have said so. The commanding, imposing Legatus, a full fulm taller than him; Regula has yet to see a problem Varis’s intellect can’t solve, a situation the man’s connections and resourcefulness cannot handle. He _is_ going to be Emperor, after all. It only makes sense.

“It’s my son,” Varis says, surprising himself. This wasn’t something he’d spoken to Regula about. Wasn’t something he’d wanted to.

“What’s become of him?” Regula’s first instinct is to assume the worst. However much Varis hasn’t spoken of it – he’d lost his wife to disease, and even years later Regula could tell he had loved her well.

No matter how many days had passed, no matter how much criticism Titus received for having no children, no matter how many matches Regula saw plotted for him, Varis took no other spouse. Not even a lover or concubine, of either sex. The man visited the grave once a year on the anniversary of her death with a bottle of the finest wine Regula had ever seen the man drink.

More wine than the he’d ever seen him drink, in fact. Regula had grown up drinking and joking with his comrades. Varis rarely accepted a preferred cup – most like due to his upbringing, the fear of poison – and when he did, it was for exceptionally formal purposes.

So when his friend makes this strange face at seeing news of his son, Regula does not know _what_ to think. None the least because he hardly knows the child. But the boy is a prodigy, Varis’s son and very close in line for the throne; had Zenos died, surely he would have heard…

“Naught is amiss. Not exactly. I have assigned him a new trainer – the Corvosi from the unit you captured.”

Regula _had_ wondered where that swordmaster had gone. Now he knows. “This is what you wanted him for? I thought their techniques were impossible for pureblood Garleans to utilize?”

“So they are.” Varis sighs, “I’d thought the challenge would do the boy some good. Show him some excitement.”

“Excitement?” Regula has to regulate his tone, something he rarely does with Varis, but there are some lines that should not be crossed.

Of course the swordmaster is no threat, not with his family held hostage, not they trained in the middle of the Imperial Palace. But still, setting such a tutor for the boy – for _excitement?_

“Zenos is…” Varis does not often pause, so Regula must take great note of it. He didn’t inherit his grandfather’s charisma, certainly, but he had all the presence and resolution expected of the Emperor and Regula cannot imagine him ever at a loss for words. “The boy’s in his more difficult years. His genius is such that he easily keeps pace with his studies and does not respect his tutors in the least.”

“Ah.” So Varis wants some respect beaten into the boy. While Regula did not quite advise the choice of tutor, he also knew of Zenos’s other teachers – and their level of skill. The Corvosi may be one of the few who could outright deliver such a thorough defeat to the boy. Might be the only one who was _willing_ to.

“It is not a matter of discipline. Zenos always does as he is asked. He simply does not give weight to the words of others, cannot seem to make any friends. I know now how they are connected, but the boy looks at me with empty eyes. He needs _something_ in his life.” What that something is, of course, Varis does not know.

“This will certainly be a change, yes? Give it some time. Mayhap the boy will start seeing others in a different light.”

Varis nods in recognition, which is Regula’s cue to leave. He salutes and turns on the door, feeling somehow ashamed.

Regula does not know aught of Zenos outside the boy’s name and talents, but he hopes for Varis’s sake the boy does learn.

 

 

 

It’s been months, _months,_ since the last time he’d seen his son, and Varis is almost _excited._

So much so that he does not bother to stop; he calls out to his son as he walks up behind the boy in the hall, striding towards him. He’s still so much taller than Zenos, his steps much wider, that he gets to the boy quite quickly.

“How goes your training?” His voice is steady and even, of course, betraying none of his feelings. As a good Emperor’s should.

From behind he catches Zenos’s hand on his shoulder. Varis looks more carefully and notices his son has been nearly limping, steps staggered, a careful veneer of confidence only barely cracked by obvious injury and fatigue. What – just what had been _happening_ to his son while he was away? He had thought – yes, surely the swordmaster would be hard on the boy, especially when he had no love at all for Garleans, but to beat a child so?

There’s no other word for it. There was no teaching in that hand clutching at his shoulder, the bruises Varis now very saw clearly on his skin. He’d heard that Zenos had suffered physical injury, but this is…

His son smiles – Zenos smiles, he _smiles_ at him, finally he sees a smile on his son’s face and – and says, “Very well, father.”

At once Varis is struck with an unfamiliar emotion. A sensation pooling in hit gut, burning in his throat. He can feel his hands tensing, his legs going rigid mid-step.

There is no trace of malice or hurt in that smile. It is not a carefully composed façade as Varis had thought. In accordance with royal decorum, with Varis’s own mannerisms, Zenos is feigning good health, ignoring his injuries to the best of his abilities. As he had been taught since birth. But the smile is genuine; Zenos really, truly does think this training goes well.

Varis does not understand, cannot understand.

 

He’s angry, Varis realizes. He’s mad at him, mad at Zenos for this – this –

Words fail him, he doesn’t know what it is. The teen, the _brat,_ he’s being beaten regularly by his trainer and Zenos does not say a _word_ to him, does not protest, does not speak up! He seems not to mind at all. He seems to _like_ it.

That’s the first thing that disturbs him. And then it grows, more and more, as days go by and his son says nothing, does nothing. Zenos is not in the least bit bothered by this _sick,_ twisted excuse of a man who took his personal vengeance out on a teenage boy. He didn’t mind that his father had

No, all Varis can remember is that smile. That smile, those eyes brightening with the first real happiness he had seen in his son’s eyes since he was but a child. A child – the boy is still a child, is he not? Fourteen years is hardly aught. This strange phase will pass.

And then Zenos is not a child anymore.

With horror, Varis realizes it. Zenos is not a child, has not been a child for a long time. A man is dead by his son’s hands and Zenos sleeps soundly at night, not disturbed for a moment. Surely not seeking comfort from others. Varis was not so sentimental to think his son would want to be held in his father’s arms like some child but –

But –

When he hears the news that his son has killed the Corvosi swordmaster, Varis is struck with a concern wholly unlike any other. Zenos may be a teen – surely Solus would comment on his and Varis’s own young accomplishments – but all Varis can hear is his own mother’s voice, overheard worrying at his grandfather.

 _“He’s my boy,”_ Varis had heard his mother say. Sob, nearly, but the woman was too composed for that, even in her worst moments. _“My husband is dead and you would have me send my child away to go fight in this – to go fight in your wars?”_

Solus’s objection had been an old and tired one. A constant refrain in Varis’s life. _“He must be prepared,”_ Varis had heard, _“He must be ready. The crown is not so light to wear, the throne not so comfortable a chair. Your boy must become a man.”_

By all rights, his grandfather is right. It is good Zenos has learned from this tutor – learned to assert himself. Execute with impunity. But all Varis can remember is his mother’s voice, those blue eyes looking up at him, that tiny child in his arms. Whose eyes were so empty, whose words were so clipped and polite. Who did as he was told, and only as he was told, all the time, and seemed to have no recourse for this strange indifference.

That boy had smiled when Varis asked him how his training was going.

Smiled, when he was reminded of that man who was beating him, the man Zenos would eventually kill.

Somehow Varis had still hoped his son might be shaken by this. Might think of it as a reason to reach out, to look to others. To look to his father and ask why he had assigned this tutor, why he had done naught about the boy’s almost daily thrashings. Varis cannot imagine what he would have done – he would not have suffered such a tutor for an instant. He would have said something, stopped it immediately. But Zenos does not.

Because Varis is weak. Varis is weak, but Zenos is anything but.

 

 

 

Varis doesn’t know how it happens. How it happened. What his son has become.

Zenos does not look empty anymore. He looks bored. No longer is he the boy who was uncertain and went about his days with a nearly perfunctory discipline. He’d grown into a man who was certain the world held no joy for him.

And Varis couldn’t do one single thing about it.

The older his son got, the harder it became to speak to him. To tell him anything, to say anything. To try and reach out.

How has your day been? Do you enjoy your training? Have you met any promising acquaintances? Varis can’t say any of those things. Just _thinking_ them feels pointless. Uttering the words aloud to Zenos would feel like telling a lie, would feel like grasping pathetically at the ghost of an old bond that had long since disappeared.

 

When Zenos is sent to quell the rebellion in Doma, Varis is _relieved._

Somewhere, faintly, he wonders if maybe this will give his son something to talk to him about. Perhaps Zenos will fail – pah, what is this delusion – and require assistance, and Varis will be able to help his son for once. All his power and political influence, his position as Legatus and heir presumptive to the throne, and at last he could do something for Zenos, should the Domans receive some miracle and manage to drive him back.

Never mind that it was Varis’s position that had Zenos sent there in the first place. The potential heir to the man who would be Emperor, finally proving himself on the battlefield. Varis knows his son will succeed. His son will be useful, his son will perform perfectly, better than could ever be expected, bring his father glory and prestige and come home with that blank look on his face and ask Varis, “Was that all?” in that bored tone.

Zenos goes where Varis commands without a single complaint, without batting an eye. Walks straight into a battlefield thinking naught of it. Brings his father all the honor and glory he could ever ask for.

Varis is only relieved. He doesn’t have to worry about that strange young man that is his son anymore. Zenos is out in the world now, standing the horrors of war and battle, being forced to fight for his life and decide the lives and deaths of others. Maybe he’ll grow from it.

The words are empty even in his own head.

 

 

 

When Varis becomes Emperor, his mother stops talking to him.

She hadn’t wanted to raise a monster. The woman had done everything she could, everything in her so very limited power to raise her son to be a good and honest man, one who had compassion for the peoples outside Garlemald and one who knew better than to make or continue needless wars.

They’d gotten more distant since he began the war of succession. It was no surprise when she cut off contact entirely, retreated into her shell.

Varis’s only worry is that she is well taken care of, looked after in her old age. He’d bare her hatred – he deserved it – but nothing could be worse than her losing herself, losing the rest of her life because of the meddling that had happened to his. She should take this time, free of politics and once again under the Emperor’s protection, to find happiness again.

The updates he receives about her health and welfare get lost on his desk, amidst the growing petitions form the Populares, complaints about the rebels and of course the ever-growing reports on Eorzea, on Gaius’s foolish overextension and refusal to heed the commands Solus somehow refuses to issue. He notices they are lost a week in, shuffles around to find them, and by the next week Varis has forgotten altogether; he is busy.

Trying to control his son and ensure Zenos does not extend his reach improperly. Trying to investigate the Allagan’s technology for himself, see the truth of Gaius’s reports, find out what might truly be done to contain the eikons.

He journeys there, to Eorzea. Meets the famed slayer of Eikons, the one who killed van Baelsar. When he looks into the eyes of this _Warrior of Light,_ inexplicably, he is reminded of his son – his son, of all people!

How unalike the two were. One who fought to protect, the other merely did as his father did. One was a hero to common folk, the other was a nightmare to noble and peasant alike. Varis could tell – by the fact that the Warrior had not _instantly killed him_ – that this Eikon Slayer was not as powerful as Zenos, not nearly; the Warrior would be dwarfed in stature by the giant that was his son.

It doesn’t occur to Varis how he is taller than Zenos still, and so stands far above the Warrior of Light, himself. All Varis remembers is that small boy who barely came up to his knees, smiling up at him, reaching out to be held. The teen that had never seemed to look him in the eyes, never made any kind of expression until he had been made to fight a man _to the death._

Varis leaves the investigation of Azys La, of the Allagan techniques against Eikons, of seeing what this Warrior of Light could do, in Regula’s trusted hands. The man is a Legatus, and his friend besides; there is no way Regula would ever fail him. At least this one trouble will bother him no father, for Varis knows Regula can deal with it.

Until he can’t.

 

 

 

 

Trouble is brewing in Eorzea. Trouble is brewing, has been brewing, ever since van Baelsar died. Ever since Solus died, since Zenos had been sent to stalk and torment the rebelling peoples of Doma.

Varis does not want to see his son. He can’t stand that bored look on that man’s face. Zenos is – Zenos is _incredible,_ and he is _impossible_ and _invincible_ all at once. Varis is a grown man with decades of experience of politics and he wishes he had the charisma of his twenty-six-year-old son. It’s almost embarrassing.

War has changed him and not at all for the better. Zenos left obeying a modicum of social niceties, at least giving his role as Crown Prince cursory consideration. But when he returns he makes no secret of his boredom, of his disdain for all things political and his desire to return to the battlefield.

Varis has time, now that he is Emperor. He can make time. The War of Succession is over – he still _curses_ his damnable grandfather for that, the man and his little tests and secrets that Varis never had entirely unraveled – and he is in a position to talk to his son. But he does not. It’s even worse, even more impossible now.

What to say to the boy that has become a man before his eyes? Outside his eyes? Zenos had eyes only for his wretched ‘hunt’. Only for battle and killing and maiming – the horrors of the Doman Rebellion, of what Zenos had done during it, did not go unnoticed. Varis could not have failed to notice.

There are no words, Varis really has none. He does not know what to say, what to think. That boy, that sweet small boy – how long had it been? Had it been twenty years? Really, twenty years? It’s incomprehensible. How had that little boy turned into this? _This?_

He’d made them watch, the spy had reported, in a hollow, hushed whisper. He _made them watch._ It was not enough for Zenos to defeat them, to crush them. He went for the jugular, crushed their spirits entirely. Ripped open their neck and let them bleed from an open vein. Entirely merciless.

And his son had not expressed the tiniest onze of remorse, not to him, not to anyone else – Zenos still had no trusted friend or confidant, no ally such as Gaius to Solus or Regula to him, Zenos had _no one_ and he still took nations over with ease – no. He’d only been _disappointed,_ Zenos had complained of the ‘savage’s weakness’.

Varis isn’t fooled, not for one moment. He can see it now, clearly. Zenos does not differentiate between such things as ‘Garlean’ and ‘Savage’. He had killed even his own men for trite reasons, petty annoyances.

Somewhere along the line, Zenos had decided human life had no value but what people could fight for. That violence was not the solution, the means to an end – but the end to which means should be applied. Somewhere along the line, his little boy had become a monster, and liked it.

Zenos is almost as tall as he is, now. But younger, stronger, with an unmistakable vitality to his face and limbs that Varis knows he himself lost decades ago. Zenos looks the part of the perfect heir, but does not act like it. Does not even care for it. Does not care what task is assigned to him, where it is that Varis sends him to fight.

Varis had kept his son in Doma during the War of Succession so that Zenos would not be caught up in the battle for the throne. So that Zenos would not have to kill his countrymen in battle, so he would not become accustomed to the idea of Garlean blood being spilled, of slaying his own people. But he knows know that Zenos would not have cared.

All he cares for is fighting.

So Varis lets him fight. He gives his son a Legion and tells him to hold past Baelsar’s Wall, and no further.

When his son obeys, Varis tries to pretend it’s because Zenos wants a challenge, wants to let the fight come to him.

When he sends his son to check on Doma, and he obeys, Varis tries to pretend it’s for political purposes only.

He tries to pretend, and forget that little boy with the bluest eyes looking straight up at him, saying, _“Then I will help you.”_

 

 

 

When Varis hears the news that his son is dead, he does not shed tears.

He goes back to his office, that warmly lit place, sits on a chair a touch more plush than he would have liked, rests his hands on a desk made of soft wood instead of hard steel.

And then he cries.

Because it occurs to him – that final failure, a pitiful act in a long list of failures, the last addition to the mountain of things Zenos had needed from him and Varis had failed to do –

It occurs to him that since his wife died he had never spoken the words ‘I love you’ aloud, ever again.

His son had never heard them. Zenos probably didn’t know what the word love even meant.

That was the child Varis had raised. His wife died, she had _died_ in the process of creating this precious creature, the baby had been placed into his arms glowing and crying and alight with health. And this is what he’d made of that sweet, bright-eyed boy, with golden hair like an angel and that silly grin. The little boy who reached out to him impatiently with open arms, giggled when Varis had plucked him from the ground, screamed with laughter at the simplest of swings through the air.

That little boy who had hugged him with all that strength in his tiny body. He’d grown up so strong he could have crushed steel, that little boy. And Zenos had once been so weak Varis could tug him off gently to push him away again, when it was time to leave.

That sweet, precious child. Zenos wasn’t born a monster. He started out just a tiny babe in the cradle, so small in his arms, so precious and crying and relying on the people around him for everything, just like any other child. He wasn’t born a monster.

Varis had raised him to be that. Varis had killed that little boy, shoved him aside for someone else, a cold and distant Zenos, and refused to embrace him for fear of that coldness, pushed him away for fear of rejection. And that cold and distant child had grown up into a monster, and it was _all his fault._

He'd sent Zenos away to fight an impossible war on two fronts and Zenos had _done it._ And Zenos _lost._

It had been such an impossible idea, Zenos dying. Losing. Failing. The man was perfect in every way, excelled in his every endeavor. Varis had sent no reinforcements, no assistance, only stepped about this issue pathetically, like the fool he was. Unwilling to instigate, afraid of the costs of letting go. Too attached to his position to take any action that would have made his mother proud.

In the end he had not done one single thing for that boy as his father. Not one thing.

And a choked sob comes from him again, tears flowing with abandon, for his wife, for his child, dead, dead, _dead,_ these people who had shown him the most open affection in his life, who had enjoyed his company and thoughtlessly dedicated themselves to his happiness. Dead because of him.

Varis cries and cries and cries. Because he was born weak.

And he is still weak.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A kindly thanks to stepOnMeZenos, who helped me a bit with editing and spelling and helped me A LOT with motivation and writing stuff for this fic. And its series.
> 
> Yeah, you read that right, I have a whole Varis series waiting in the wings, some of it finished, some of it not. Varisfuckers, lend me your strength - let me know if you'd like to see more of this character. What particular situations you'd like to see from his POV, etc. I have a bunch of content for him, but tbh I'm a little nervous about posting stuff because... he's not quite as hot as the usual characters I write for XD 
> 
> So shameless request for praise and encouragement in the comments, if you have the mental time and space available to say something motivational. I really love the dynamics Varis has with other characters, particularly his own family, and I'd love to hear what you guys think of this take. It's not very well covered by canon, so that leaves so much room for fanon and theories! Did Varis really love his son? Did he even WANT one? With the short story there's a heavy indication that Zenos has no siblings - why not? Did Varis never want to remarry, was one child enough, or did he realize he didn't even have enough time for one child? Was it even a matter of time, or did Varis just not WANT to spend time with him? Sooooo many questions, and so many more, this fic is just one take on it. And that leaves nothing about what _Varis's_ childhood was like, what his relationship was with Solus, how his father died, etc. 
> 
> Talk to meeee in the comments I love this stufff and I want to write mooooreeeee but I am shiiii. But still, thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed! <3


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